The Ebola Wall (4 page)

“Main gun,” he ordered, his voice carrying more anxiety than he intended.

It was Clark’s show now, the gunner taking over command of the big 120mm smooth bore cannon. The turret hummed as its electronic guidance system centered for the shot, and then Havoc rocked on her haunches as fire erupted from the barrel.

Norse watched as the target was completely consumed by a fog of smoke, dirt, and debris. It was no surprise Havoc hit her mark, a slow moving tango at such close range hardly a challenge for the tank’s sophisticated aiming system.   

Several seconds passed before the outline of the target again became clear. Norse inhaled sharply when the range indicated 72 meters. They were still coming.

“SABOT!” Clark yelled, ordering the loader to feed Havoc an armor-piercing round, complete with tungsten steel dart.

“Up,” came the reply a few seconds later.

But it was too late. Norse and his crew watched in horror as the rectangular shape began rolling toward the overpass. With the blocking hulk of the pipe no longer obscuring the instruments, the outline of two small forklifts appeared. The captain realized immediately that the electric powered units had been used to push a huge sewer pipe in their direction.

The cylinder was gaining momentum, propelled by gravity down the natural slope of the street that passed beneath his position. It was a full two seconds before he realized they were in danger.

Norse’s first reaction was to shoot the attacking tube, but that option was quickly dismissed. The oncoming apparatus was now below the lowest possible apex of Havoc’s main gun.
Why would they attack us with a sewer pipe
, he wondered.
Seems kind of silly. Are they trying to knock down the bridge?

A surge of realization flashed through the captain’s mind. “Get us out of here!” he screamed at Jonesy. “Move this fucking tank… right now!”

There was a slight pause on the driver’s part. Partially shocked by his normally calm commander’s outburst, Specialist Jones hesitated for just a moment. In the end, it probably wouldn’t have made any difference.

The concrete cylinder was six feet in diameter, the inside tightly packed with bags of nitrogen fertilizer and other accelerants. It came to rest against the overpass’s primary support just as Havoc’s tracks began to move.

Three hundred meters inside the wall, a single man watched the pipe roll straight and true. Hidden from the military’s fancy thermal imagers by a mess of heavy, wool blankets and a thick layer of mud, the sole observer pressed the button on a device originally built to control a child’s remote control toy. At the same moment, he dove for a nearby shallow trench.

The explosion shook the ground for over four miles, its fireball of white and red flame visible for almost the same distance.

The section of bridge immediately under Havoc was thrown over 100 feet into the air, the blast wave flinging the reinforced concrete deck like an autumn leaf blown from a tree. Havoc slammed into the earth a few moments later, the jarring impact crushing bone and flesh. Captain Norse’s world went black.

Chapter 2

Huddled on a rooftop over a mile away, Colonel Jack Taylor, USMC, retired, lowered his own pair of binoculars. The 56-year-old career military man turned to an associate and with a grimace ordered, “Signal for phase two.”

A moment later the Texas sky was again split by a brilliant white light. As the flare’s illumination raced skyward, the subordinate noticed his commander’s scowl. “Everything okay, Colonel?”

The older man nodded, the brow under his nearly-shaved head wrinkling at the question. “I thought it would feel good to hit those son-of-a-bitches,” he grumbled. “After everything they’ve done to us and this city, I had hopes of revenge healing my soul. I, of all people, should have known better. Killing is killing. It doesn’t matter if it’s Muslim insurgents or American jailers, taking human life is never a positive experience. I’ll be fine, Major. You just worry about those busses.”

Taylor raised his optic again, his attention just east of where they’d detonated the bomb. A sly smile crossed his face as he watched the military units closest to exit 4 react, their wheels and tracks rolling to assist injured comrades – and plug a hole in the wall. “They’re consistent and predictable,” he commented. “Following orders just as we anticipated.”

At the same time, four school busses appeared from behind a nearby strip center, each of the transports fully loaded with citizens wanting nothing more than to escape the hell-hole of Houston, Texas. The colonel watched the small convoy’s progress, amazed at the amount of luggage secured to the top of each unit with ropes, bungee cords, and tarps.

The drivers had been well coached, bumping and jolting along a direct line toward what was now a huge gap in the wall.

The newly created opening was a result of the nearby Stryker and Abrams units leaving their positions, scrambling to aid the victims of the giant pipe bomb. Colonel Taylor had warned the escapees that they would have less than five minutes to breach the gap and disappear into the countryside before the army could respond. Each and every individual on those buses knew the military would shoot them on sight once they were near the Grand Parkway.

The four transports were filled with specially selected and trained volunteers. Taylor had spoken with each individually and was blunt about their odds. Death was likely, either staying put, or trying to break free. Neither option held much chance for collecting social security.

The thought brought him back to the job at hand. The first bus was just unloading, the desperate passengers tugging bundles, backpacks, and small suitcases from the roof. Others merely ran for the interstate as fast as their legs would carry them.

Taylor watched the exodus for a moment and then let his gaze drift skyward, his trained eye seeking what he knew would be the real danger – the gunships.

“See anything, Colonel?” the major asked, well aware of what his commander was seeking.

“No, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. We wouldn’t be able to see them at night. They’re coming though, that much is assured. Let’s just hope our people can scatter enough that they don’t get them all.”

The second bus had arrived, the scene of hustling humanity repeating.

The colonel knew some of the passengers had friends and family waiting on the other side. Two sisters, attending the University of Houston, were expecting their father to be hidden in the adjoining woods. According to the older sibling, their pop had been practically insane since being cut off from his daughters and was willing to risk Ebola, the U.S. Army, and anything else life threw in his path.

The third bus was disgorging its human cargo when the blinking lights of an aircraft appeared in the distant sky. “They’re not even bothering to fly dark,” the ex-officer noted. “How audacious.”

People from the fourth bus had now joined the stream of desperate humanity scurrying for the wall. In the darkness, the colonel couldn’t tell how many were left on his side of the barrier. He hoped it wasn’t many.

In they came, swooping across the treetops at over 100 mph, the wasp-like outline of the Apache gunships clear in the moonlit sky. Taylor knew the killing potential of the warbirds, their infrared systems making them just as lethal at night as in the day.

The men observing the escape held their breath, waiting on the hell and fury they knew the helicopters would unleash on the frail, unprotected human bodies scrambling through the fields and woods beyond.

“Here it comes,” someone mumbled as the first gunship pulled up to hover.

“May God have mercy on their souls,” someone else added.

But the bird of prey didn’t fire, instead it continued on over the top of the hustling civilians, banking hard above the treetops as if to make a second pass.

“That was odd,” the major whispered. “Mercy?”

“No,” Taylor answered. “Someone didn’t give them permission to shoot, or they aren’t sure of their target. We just caught a huge break.”

The second gunship approached, but it was already too late. The last stragglers had managed to cross the freeway’s pavement and were now beyond the reach of the military’s shoot-to-kill orders. They still had to evade capture, but the chances of an instant death had greatly diminished.

A resounding cheer arose into the Texas night, all of the men gathered to watch the escape celebrating their victory. After a hardy round of backslapping, high-fiving, and congratulations, a few of the younger men began to chant, “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” Soon everyone joined in, the cadence as contagious as Ebola-B.

Colonel Taylor didn’t feel the euphoria, his mind still burdened with command. “Let’s hope our amphibious group has the same success,” he whispered.

The U.S. Coast Guard and Navy were responsible for the seaside section of the quarantine. While a small fleet of patrol boats, corvettes, and even a destroyer were commonly seen plying the waters of the Houston Ship Channel, most of the colonel’s experts believed the “Sea-wall” was maintained by patrolling aircraft.

In the early days of the Q, reports of people trying to escape via waterborne machines were common. According to the locals interviewed, everything from jetskis to hefty yachts had tried to run the blockade. Those attempts always resulted in bright flashes of light on the horizon, quickly followed by thunder-like boom of explosions rolling across the water.

Often, large debris fields would wash up onshore a few days later. It wasn’t uncommon for bodies to be found in the flotsam, most identified simply as fugitives who’d attempted to run the gauntlet of naval firepower.

During the planning phases of the Great Escape, the Sea-wall had been a seemingly unsolvable dilemma. Colonel Taylor’s frustrated staff had all but written off any attempt at “rum running.” It was a retired oilfield engineer who casually proposed the solution.

“What about the submarines?” the gentleman had asked.

Submarines, used for inspection of offshore oil platforms, were in plentiful supply in Houston. It came as a great surprise when Taylor learned that over a dozen local corporations maintained such machinery.

Many of the devices were one or two-man submersibles, often possessing limited range and capability. All were battery-powered, designed to be piggybacked out to a specific rig and then lowered into the water for a quick, deep dive. Not exactly the performance profile needed to run a naval picket.

A program of modifications was initiated. The survivors included a handful of marine engineers, one of whom had firsthand experience with the mini-subs. They were happy to take on the task.

Onboard oxygen storage was the first thing deemed unnecessary. Traveling just below the surface in the shallow waters of the bay wouldn’t require any large tanks of breathable air. The machines could be easily altered to “snorkel,” allowing them to catch their breath, much like military diesel-electric subs.

Additional batteries replaced the heavy tanks of air, extending the machine’s range.

After stripping off every unnecessary piece of equipment, six of the underwater units were readied, the engineers believing their range sufficiently enhanced to pass well under the blockade.

Nine brave souls were selected from the pool of volunteers. When the Q had been ordered, Houston had been full of non-citizens visiting the U.S. for business or pleasure. Those people had been trapped inside the wall, suffering through hell-on-earth just like everyone else.

Taylor’s planners were looking specifically for people with foreign passports. If the “Great Escape” were discovered, Americans might become non-gratis at international airports. It wasn’t long before a pool of candidates was formed.

In a way, the colonel’s staff got lucky. There was the Russian businessman, furious at being trapped for months in a foreign city, outraged when the vodka at his hotel had run dry. When one of the man’s associates had been consumed by cannibals, he nearly went insane with disgust and abhorrence. Over the months, his barely contained, now-sober demeanor shifted to a deep loathing of Mother Russia – and eventually the world at large. What was even more interesting to the planners – the man had served in his home country’s submarine forces.

They found a Frenchman who had survived the outbreak, his past including extensive scuba diving experience. During the early days of the Q, he’d emailed his parents a short video clip of a woman with an infant, digging desperately through a dumpster on the street below his hotel. He had opened his window while filming, yelling down to ask what she was doing. “I haven’t eaten for days. My baby is starving… I can’t make milk.”

He threw down a few scraps of bread he’d been hoarding, something in the woman’s desperation touching his heart. The warm exchange of charity given and received was soon shattered - two men in police uniforms appearing out of nowhere. Casually strolling into the camera’s field of view, one of the officers pulled his pistol and shot the mother without a word. His partner casually bent, prying the small hunk of bread from the woman’s dying hands, and then they had calmly ambled along. The witness zoomed in on the crying infant, still clutched in his mother’s dead arms. It was seven hours later before the child went silent below his open window.